


The Art of Switch Hitting

by AgentInfinity



Series: Porn!AU [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, BDSM, Blood, Blowjobs, Butt Plugs, Caning, D/s, Dirty Talk, Dom!taire, F/M, Flogging, Forced Orgasm, Kink, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mentions of Drowning, Modern AU, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Physical Altercations, Restraints, Subspace, Suicidal Ideation, Suspension, actual les amis porn stars, but it's blink and you'll miss it, face smacking, mentions of child abuse, porn au, rope binding, sub!cosette, whipping with a belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentInfinity/pseuds/AgentInfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire loves Enjolras and submitting to him, really he does.  But, he's a switch.  A switch with needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, years after my first fic in this 'verse, here I am with the next part. Check the tags for anything that might trigger you. I'll update them as needed with each chapter. This is unbeta'd, so the mistakes are all my own, even though the characters are not. Enjoy!

"If you can get past me and to the door, you may leave. If I can successfully pin you, then I get to keep you for the afternoon. You get to be my entertainment." Grantaire smiles at the beautiful woman in front of him. She's all slender angles and olive skin wrapped in a lavender t-shirt and floral skirt. He suspects no bra because, _“Those things are expensive Grantaire, why the hell would I let you cut it off of me?” “How else am I gonna get your clothing off after you’re tied up?”_ She grins at him and sets her feet. He smiles back, lazily and at ease. He’s having fun. He settles into his stance a few feet in front of the door and waits. Grantaire and his costar are in one of the more plain rooms at the Fetish offices. It’s just a mat on the floor, a large table, a small table with supplies, and a myriad of toys and tools hanging from the wall behind his companion for the day.

Her name is Cosette, but her on-screen name is Euphrasie. She practices a bit of judo and some boxing with him at the gym he frequents, and together they had come up with this scene for Submission and Restraint, one of Fetish's many subdomains. It's a simple one, but one to which Grantaire is looking very forward. 

It also helps that Enjolras is watching this scene. He admitted a few weeks ago to never actually being present while Grantaire was topping someone and expressed interest. So, Grantaire, being unable to resist much of anything for long when it comes to Enjolras, had agreed to let Enjolras watch him shoot. 

It’s thrilling, having E here watching, but the second Cosette begins moving toward the door, his attention snaps solely to her. 

Show time.

Cosette has her knees bent, moving down low, and is _fast_. She zips to Grantaire’s left and feints, ducking his arm and spinning to his right, laughing all the way. Grantaire is laughing as well, feeling his delight spread inside him. He loves subbing for Enjolras, loves their dynamic and relationship, hell, loves Enjolras himself more than almost anything in the universe, but he will never be able to suppress his dominant side indefinitely.

Enjolras understands this and was able to put him at ease in one short conversation.

***

”Hey, E. I wanted to talk about something.” Grantaire sits down on his couch, a truly hideous beige eyesore. It’s a remnant from his very poor days, but it is the most comfortable couch in existence, he’s sure.

Enjolras looks up at him from his spot in the much nicer-looking easy chair that sits opposite the couch. He’s been checking and replying to emails for almost an hour and Grantaire is sure he’s probably still got a hundred to get through. He doesn’t even want to think about his own inbox. He hasn’t checked it in three days. Out of sight, out of mind. 

“Okay, what’s up?” 

“Well, I just,” he sighs and starts again, looking down and talking to his lap. “I’m still going to need to top sometimes. Like, outside of a shoot. It’s just the way I’m wired. I’m a switch through and though, y’know.” Grantaire is picking at the hem of his t-shirt where the seam is coming apart. He’s pretty good at communication these days, but telling Enjolras that he needs to go beat and fuck someone else is kind of twisting him up inside. 

“I know. It doesn’t bother me. I’m honestly surprised you’ve lasted this long without needing to do a scene at a club or something.” Grantaire looks up, surprised. Enjolras huffs out a breath. “I have you and your love and your submission. That’s all I need. I know you have your own needs that I can’t completely fulfill.” Enjolras smiles at him and then looks back down to his computer and frowns, typing out a quick burst of words. Grantaire imagines Enjolras taking on a submissive role and has to suppress a snort. 

“So, you don’t mind. Even if it’s not for a shoot. Like, if it’s not for my job.” Grantaire hates that he needs this much encouragement. He knew before he asked that Enjolras wouldn’t care, but he still needed to hear it. He needs the reassurance. Enjolras looks back up at him with his brows furrowed. Grantaire fidgets a bit and looks at the floor briefly before bringing his eyes back up to meet Enjolras’ gaze.

“No, I don’t mind at all. I’d actually encourage you to seek out what you need. I don’t want you to hide things from me, but you don’t have to ask my permission either.” He puts his computer on the coffee table and comes over to sit next to Grantaire on the couch. He slides his fingers gently down Grantaire’s cheek and kisses him. Tension bleeds out of Grantaire instantly. When their lips part, they’re both smiling. Enjolras grasps Grantaire’s chin lightly and fixes him with a firm but amused look. “I love you, R, and I trust you. Completely. Let me know if you need something or want my input, but otherwise, you do what you need to do."

That had been two months ago, almost exactly six months after they had started dating. Up to that point, he had only slipped into a dominant role during shoots, which was fun, but there’s something different when it’s not in front of a camera. It seemed more like a real encounter without the random outbursts of a director calling out, “Eat her out, make it messy,” or “Struggle more, honey,” or “Now would be a good time to let him come.”

So, he started going to his favorite club, Entre Nous, a couple times a month and doing a scene or negotiating one to be done later. He saw Cosette there the third time he went after his and Enjolras’ conversation and recognized her from Fetish’s offices, where she shot mostly for the femdom sites. They had never officially met, but she admitted to being a fan of his and Enjolras’, and the conversation went from there. Grantaire learned that she enjoyed judo, was looking for a good gym, and loved physical struggles in her scenes. She had a lovely boyfriend/sub of her own at home named Marius, but Cosette was a switch with needs. 

Grantaire laughed out loud at how similar they were. He recommended his gym to her and asked if she’d be interested in subbing for him. She agreed and they set a date to meet and discuss particulars. 

”So, what are you looking for in this scene, Madame?” Grantaire takes a sip of his coffee, still too hot, and looks across the table to Cosette. She’s downing a large Americano like no one’s business. Enjolras would be so proud. They’re sitting outside the same café where Enjolras had ambushed Grantaire about subbing again. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Cosette has either finished her coffee or is giving it a small respite. Looking down at the table, she hesitates for a second, thinking. They’d talked about it at Entre Nous earlier in the week, with her decked out in black leather and a high ponytail and Marius kneeling beside her at the edge of the booth. Today it’s a cerulean blouse and white linen pants. He appreciates her duality. 

“I want a physical struggle of some kind at the beginning. Like a short sparring match or something. I usually have trouble getting into the right mindset without some sort of fight.” Grantaire nods and hums thoughtfully. He takes a drag off his cigarette and exhales the smoke above Cosette’s head. 

“So, the fight needs to be real, right? Something partially faked isn’t gonna work for you, is it?” 

“I guess it would depend on which part was the fake part.” 

“Like, are we throwing punches and kicking or are we doing submission holds? Are you gonna be throwing elbows? Are face hits on the menu?” 

“No punches, maybe some elbows, but nothing to the face. I’ll need to connect or you will though.” She frowns. “No kicking. I’m not talking UFC here. I think submission holds will work well for this.” She grins. She is very good at submission holds. Grantaire has had the sore arms to prove it. 

“Okay, Alexis Davis. We can do that. What else?" 

“Davis? I think I’m more Miesha Tate. You should see my rear naked choke.” Another grin. Grantaire laughs, loud and delighted. 

“You and me, lady. We’re gonna be friends.” He holds out his fist for a bump and is not disappointed. “Okay, so two scenes? Three? And how’s your pain tolerance?” 

“Let’s do two. I’m not sure I have three in me. It’s been over a year since I’ve been on the bottom end of the dynamic." 

“Sure, that’s fine.” 

“And I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. I prefer it actually.” 

“Good, okay. So, we’ll need one of the open rooms with the mat. First scene on a table?” He finishes his first cigarette and lights one more. He’s trying to cut down on his cigarette intake, but it seems second nature when he has a drink in his hand, previously alcohol, now usually something caffeinated. He likes to do scene negotiations over coffee or somewhere neutral, safe, and relaxing. So, thoughtful discussions and coffee usually equals Grantaire smoking his daily allowance in one go. 

“Yeah, on my back would be good. No blindfolds. I need to see you. Then maybe something more elaborate for the second part. I know rope is your specialty.” 

Grantaire’s mind immediately takes off with ideas, different suspensions, types of ties, how long she would be able to safely stay in certain positions. Grantaire inhales on his cigarette and smirks. 

“How do you feel about asshooks?” 

Then they had discussed limits—no watersports, water itself, or blindfolds. Floggers, crops, electro, nipple clamps, and yes, asshooks were all acceptable. 

After all the shoptalk, they had another coffee and finished up with a conversation about judo vs. jiu jitsu before leaving to go to the gym. Grantaire was positive he’d found his platonic life mate. Other than Eponine. And Bahorel. 

***

Cosette’s feint takes her around Grantaire’s back to the right and he continues his movement to the left and spins, catching her by the forearm and twisting it behind her back. In any other scene like this, the bottom would struggle a bit and give up, but this isn’t that kind of shoot and Cosette’s not that kind of girl. She elbows him in the solar plexus and turns, wrenching her arm away from him and completing her turn. She sweeps his legs out from under him in one gorgeous movement, grabs his hand, and wraps her legs around his arm and over his chest in a textbook arm bar. 

“Is that all you got? I’ve got to say, I’m disappointed,” she taunts, tightening her grip as he tests her, pulling his arm away from her to see if she’ll loosen her grip. They talked about this part in length a couple days ago. He didn’t want her to pull any punches, so to speak, but he also didn’t want to be exhausted before either of them was showing any skin. 

She doesn’t loosen her grip and her smile is cat-like. Less ‘cat that got the cream’ and more ‘cat that ate the canary’s whole fucking family’. Grantaire would bet that Marius is either a very good boy or a very sore boy. 

“Don’t get disappointed just yet, sweetheart,” he shoots back, grabbing her right leg with his free arm and rolling backward over his head. He flips her over onto her stomach and sits on her back, pinning her arms down to the mat and squeezing just hard enough for her to feel it, but not enough to bruise. Cosette’s panting beneath him, but he suspects it’s more from exhilaration than exertion. 

A second later, Grantaire finds himself sprawled out on his back while she makes a run for the door. She had pushed her ass in the air with her legs and unbalanced him enough to get her arms free and shove him forward. He throws a leg out and trips her up, and although she doesn’t go all the way down, it gives him enough time to scramble up and grab her from behind, one arm wrapped around her head and one around her midsection and arms. 

She twists wildly in his grip, but he seems to have her now. He shoves his knees into the backs of hers, buckling them, and follows her to the ground. This time, he keeps one hand on her head, shoving her cheek into the mat and sits with his knees and all his weight on her ass and upper thighs. With no leverage to pull her unbalancing trick, she’s unable to do much more than grab at the hand on her head to no avail. She’s wiry, Grantaire will give her that, but he’s stronger, and in their current position, leverage will do her no good. 

He leans down to her ear and chuckles. 

“We’re gonna have so much fun, don’t ya think?” He lets his lips drag on the shell of her ear as he speaks, nipping at her ear lobe when she doesn’t answer. “That’s okay, you don’t have to say anything right now. You just have to listen.” Moving quickly, he grasps her right arm with his free hand and lifts his weight from her back at the same time, flipping her onto her back and pinning her wrists to the floor above her head with one hand. He sits astride her hips and grinds his pelvis into hers. With his other hand, he strokes her cheek and pushes the hair that escaped her ponytail back away from her face. She grins at him cheekily, and he laughs. 

“Okay, now that I’ve won, I just have two rules.” Cosette raises an eyebrow, still grinning. Grantaire has a more laidback approach to topping than Enjolras does. Enjolras is firm and authoritarian, unyielding where Grantaire is organic and fluid. It’s not that he’s less of an asshole, he just doesn’t stand on as much ceremony. 

“You will call me Sir. That’s rule number one. Number two is that you’re mine for now. That means you do everything I say, when I say it. Understand?” He gives her a second to answer, and when she just smiles at him, close-lipped and defiant, he smacks her cheek with his free hand and grips her jaw more tightly. Her eyes have gone a bit darker and the smile is gone, but he can tell how much she’s enjoying this. Her face is schooled into a look of unfeeling, but her hips are ever so slightly pushing upward into his. 

“I believe I asked you a question,” Grantaire says lowly, his face inches from hers. 

“Yes, Sir,” she replies quietly, but clearly. 

“Yes, Sir, what?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes, Sir, I understand.” Her breathing has slowed a bit from the scuffle, and she isn’t tugging to free her hands at the moment. He lets go of her jaw and runs the back of his hand down the side of her neck and over her breasts, grasping one and squeezing. She gasps and groans, arching into his touch. Nope, no bra. He leans down and swipes his tongue over her lips, sucking her bottom one into his mouth and biting it. 

“Mmm,” she moans, breathy and soft. 

“Let’s get started, shall we?” he asks, bringing his hand up to her neck and squeezing, not enough to choke her, but enough for her to feel it. 

“Yes, Sir.” Grantaire releases her wrists and puts his other hand around the back of her neck, standing and drawing her up with him by the throat. He gets her to her feet and then shoves her back down to her knees, still grasping her throat. He reaches behind him for the coil of rope he’d stuck in his back pocket before the shoot began and holds it in front of her face. 

"Arms out, sweetheart.” She glares up at him, but the corners of her mouth are twitching upward minutely. Her arms stay resolutely at her sides. Grantaire smacks her on the cheek again and then wraps a hand in her ponytail tilting her head back far enough to throw her off-balance. “I said arms _out_.” She meets his gaze and smirks, but holds her arms out toward him, palms facing together. 

“Good girl.” He makes quick work of a simple rope cuff and winds the long ends around one hand. “Unfasten my pants.” Cosette fumbles a few times with very little room between her hands, but gets it done pretty quickly. She’s looking up at him hungrily, already getting into the spirit of things. Grantaire gives her a smile and strokes a hand down her neck and across her chest. He jerks the scoop neckline of her shirt down under her breasts and gives one an appreciative squeeze. She relaxes into his hand and continues looking up at him. Pulling his cock free, he holds it to her mouth, rubbing her lips with the head. 

“Suck.” Cosette doesn’t hesitate, just slides him into her mouth and works down as far as she can before pulling back up. 

“That’s right, keep going. Just like that.” He has to admit, She is very good at blowjobs. Not Enjolras good, but definitely top five, which is saying something given his career. She swirls her tongue around the tip as she comes up and applies just enough teeth to make him hiss in approval. He pulls the rope toward him and puts his other hand on the back of her head, groaning when he slides into the back of her throat. He holds her there for four, five seconds until her eyes water and her throat spasms around him. He releases her head and she pulls off him, sucking in a breath and clearing her throat. She looks obscenely gorgeous, her lips swollen and red, eyes glassy with tears from choking. 

“Good girl. C’mon.” 

He pulls her up and toward the middle of the room to the table, bending her backward onto it until she’s lying down. He fastens the loose end of the rope through an o-ring at the top of the table and pulls it taut, stretching her arms above her head so that her elbows are only slightly bent. Grantaire calls that ‘struggle room’. He walks back around to the bottom of the table, yanks up her skirt, and smacks her inner thighs, relishing how easily her skin turns pink for him. 

“Spread your legs,” he orders, and she does. He fastens her dangling ankles to the legs of the table with rope left there before the shoot and steps back a bit to take in the sight. She’s utilizing his struggle room to test her the rope cuffs, turning her head back and forth to look at them. 

This suddenly feels more like a private scene than a video shoot. They had snagged Courf for directing duties on this one, Bossuet and Musichetta for the cameras, and Jehan was standing next to Enjolras, having finished his obligations early for the day. Courfeyrac never shouted out directions unless absolutely necessary, and Bossuet and Chetta were on the same wavelength, oftentimes to an almost psychic level, so the chatter behind the scenes was very minimal. The only sounds Grantaire could currently hear were the short exhalations Cosette was expelling and the soft hum of the lights overhead. 

He drives any thoughts of who else is in the room completely from his brain and focuses completely on Cosette. She is exquisite. Her long, silky hair was half out of her ponytail and her cheeks were sparsely dusted with freckles and tinged slightly pink. Her lips were plump and bow-shaped, still red and swollen from being wrapped around his cock. 

While the cameras are trained on Cosette, he grabs the safety clothing scissors from the small table and comes back to her, running them down her chest and abdomen. 

“We can’t have any fun with all these clothes in our way, can we?” he asks her, starting at the bottom of her shirt and cutting upward through the middle of the shirt and between her breasts, enjoying how they bounce as the fabric around them is stripped away. 

“No, Sir,” she mumbles, craning her neck to watch the path of the scissors. He starts on her sleeves. 

“’Atta girl. I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna talk to me.” He starts to work on her skirt and has it off in seconds, leaving her completely bare save for her little pink g-string. He rubs at her clit through the fabric, feeling how wet she already is for him. She moans and pushes her hips toward his hand as much as her restraints allow. 

“Hmm, greedy little thing,” Grantaire remarks, pulling his fingers from the wet cloth stuck in her folds, and in two quick snips, her panties are unceremoniously pulled from her body and dropped in the floor with the rest of her ruined clothing. 

Grantaire climbs onto the table and straddles her, leaning down to kiss her full on the mouth and loving the way she lifts her head and leans toward him when he backs away. He slides his tongue along her neck biting kissing down to her chest. When he wraps his mouth around a nipple and begins alternating suction and teeth, she arches her back and let out a small, breathless ‘oh’. He moves to the other nipple and gives it the same treatment, and she lifts her head to watch him, tugging on her restraints. 

He slides down her body slowly breathing warm air over her pussy and giving it a single lick. She shivers, and he follows it with a hard smack that makes her jump and groan. 

“You have a hard time giving up control, don’t you?” He asks as he steps away to grab the nipple clamps from the small table, catching Enjolras’ gaze for a split second. He has a strange look on his face, something like wonder or surprise. 

“Yes, I do.” Cosette’s voice brings his full attention back to her and he leans over the top of the table, holding up the clamps and dangling them over her face. 

“I believe there should have been a ‘Sir’ in there somewhere. We only went over the rules ten minutes ago, and there were only two of them. You seem like a smart girl. I don’t think you forgot them that quickly.” He gives her right thigh two quick smacks with his open palm. “So, that only leaves the option of you deliberately disobeying me.” Pinching a nipple, he releases the clamp right behind it. She stares at his face the whole time, only flinching slightly when he lets go of the clamp. “You don’t have to worry, though. I don’t wanna brag, but I’m pretty good at teaching manners to the disobedient.” He places the other clamp and gives the chain a good tug. That gets only a little bit more of a reaction. The girl wasn’t lying about her pain tolerance. 

“Let’s get started.” He selects a heavy flogger from the wall, a sturdy leather one, and dangles the tips of it over her chest, her toned abdomen, and downward between her legs. She shivers, but otherwise seems unaffected. Good. He knows just the thing to wake her up. 

Grantaire brings the flogger down with a thwack, not at all gently, across her breasts, making the chain between the clamps jingle and dance. Cosette expels a breath and goes rigid. He continues, the tips of the flogger hitting first one breast then the other over and over. Her skin blushes pink and deepens into an angry red as the hits keep falling. She’s beautiful like this, all graceful lines as she arches and gasps. He’d love to paint her like this. 

“Are you thinking about your manners now? Are you feeling more respectful?” He’s watching closely as she grips the rope attached to the cuffs and remains stiff, noting her short breaths and curling toes. The hits move south over her ribs and belly, just a bit lighter now. It’s a reprieve for her to catch her breath and try to relax into it. 

“No,” she gasps out. Grantaire laughs. He’s whipping the flogger in circles, a continuous motion down, down, down, until he starts to catch the soft skin dotted with dark hair between her legs. She’s wet already, and when he catches her clit with a strike for the first time, she does cry out with a choked off ‘ahh’. He continues with the rapid strikes between her legs and on her thighs, noticing how she begins to drip on the table. He gives her a few more on her thighs and moves back up as he slows down. She’s breathing harshly and her cheeks are flushed, but she’s becoming less rigid. Relaxing into it. 

He stops after a few last strikes to her breasts and drops the flogger to the floor. Sighing, her arms go limp, hands letting go of the cuffs. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, long enough for him to grasp the chain between the clamps and give it a good pull, harder than the first one. Her shoulders come up off the table as much as her restraints will allow. 

He leans down over her face and strokes her hair while snaking a hand down between her legs and rubbing two fingers in circles around her clit. 

“Still green?” Grantaire whispers in her ear, too quietly for the microphones process. 

“Yes,” she replies quietly and moans. 

Grantaire goes to the bottom of the table and slides his fingers down Cosette’s slit and slips one inside. She’s dripping wet and so hot as he rotates his finger and makes a ‘come hither’ motion. 

“Ahh, yes,” she gasps, shoving her hips forward as much as she can, which admittedly isn’t much. 

“Yes, what?” Grantaire’s hand stills. 

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, and Grantaire slips another finger in and redoubles his attentions. His thumb finds her clit and rubs in the circles she seems to like. 

“Good girl. See? You get rewards when you’re good.” He continues for a few moments, eventually sliding a third finger in and pressing against her g-spot repeatedly. She practically vibrates against the table top, and he can tell she’s close. Her hands are twisting and pulling unconsciously at her restraints, her legs shaking and toes curling. 

“Yes, Sir, yes, please, please,” Cosette sobs, eyes tight shut and tears flowing. This, this is what Grantaire was waiting for. Letting go can be so hard for some people. He would know. 

“Not just yet, honey. Hold on, hold on,” He murmurs to her, his free hand stroking along her ribs and upward. He grasps the chain and pulls as he speeds his fingers up, hitting her g-spot over and over and orders, “Now. Come for me now.” 

And with a ragged cry, she does. 

While she’s still panting, he quickly removes the clamps, first one then the other. She jumps and groans, the quick bursts of pain surprising her but not distracting her from the orgasm she’s still coming down from. 

“I think you could come again, don’t you?” 

“No, Sir,” she pants. Grantaire smiles. They spoke about this when they went over particulars. If she didn’t think she could handle a second orgasm, she would say ‘no’ twice. If yes, then she’d reply with one polite ‘No, Sir’. 

“Oh, I think so. Plus, I was nice and let you come already, so I think it’s my turn to have some fun too.” He slips the head of his cock up and down through the slickness around her slit, moaning at how wet she is. With one push, he slides completely inside her, bottoming out and reveling in how impossibly hot and tight she is. Her muscles are still jumping from her first orgasm as he starts to move, slow and deep. She turns her head side to side and moans little ‘ah, ah’s’ as he thrusts, picking up speed. 

He starts rubbing at her clit again, eliciting louder and louder moans until she’s practically screaming. He feels her clench around him as he pounds into her with quick snaps of his hips, her second orgasm rushing through her. She squirts, clear liquid hitting his chest and covering her thighs. He doesn’t even mind that she didn’t ask. Seeing her in such a state, he pulls out, and with two short strokes he’s coming as well, coating her stomach and chest. 

For a moment, the only sound is that of their breaths, quick and harsh. When he trusts his legs, Grantaire steps back out of frame and the cameras sweep over Cosette. She’s still breathing hard, her breasts heaving and her hips still moving in small circles as she comes down. 

He’s so focused on Cosette that he doesn’t even hear Courfeyrac say cut, nor does he hear Enjolras approach. Suddenly there are arms around his waist and warmth on his back and lips on his ear. 

“You have no idea how hot it was to watch you with her. When you’re done here, everything you just did to her will be done to you. And then some.” And then the arms and warmth are gone and someone hands him a warm, wet cloth and two robes. He shakes off the promises of later, and goes to Cosette to undo her wrists and clean her off. 

She’s bleary-eyed, but able to sit up on her own and give him a small smile. He hands her a robe. 

“You really know how to treat a girl,” she says, slipping the robe over herself with shaky hands. Grantaire grins at her and sits down beside her on the table, wrapping an arm around her lightly. She leans in and rests her head on him and he pulls her a bit closer, knowing he should be thinking about the next scene, but unable to get Enjolras’ promise out of his mind. Flashes of the different types of nipple clamps Enjolras owns and how he loves to beat Grantaire with various and assorted objects clouds his mind and his dick gives a half-hearted twitch. 

Someone hands them both bottles of water, and the spell is broken. Cosette assures him she’s okay to go get cleaned up and ready for the next scene. Grantaire sees Enjolras listening to Jehan speak animatedly about something, waving his arms up and down. When Enjolras notices Grantaire watching him, he winks. Grantaire hides his erection in his robe and walks down the hall to the showers. 

_”That absolute bastard,”_ he thinks, grinning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter is halfway done, but I'm leaving on vacation in two days with a toddler and a husband, and I'm a procrastinator. Therefore, the next chapter could be out in the next two days or it could be next week sometime. I'm thinking three chapters right now, but we'll see. This chapter was surprisingly hard to write... Apparently I'm better at writing gay sex than hetero despite my opposing experience. Ah well. Let me know what you think! If I've made any mistakes, let me know that as well so I can fix them.
> 
> Also, I made a tumblr post of my face casts for this AU. [Check it out!](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com/post/147706330834/my-pornau-les-amis-face-casts)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's second scene with Cosette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I might have spent my free time at work last night in the corner ignoring everyone and writing this chapter on the word app on my phone. This scene wouldn't leave me alone until I got it out. I added a few more tags for you to check out in case of trigger-y content.
> 
> If you want to see my Cosette face cast (and the rest of the Les Amis), it can be found [here](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com/post/147706330834/my-pornau-les-amis-face-casts) on my tumblr. My face claim for Cosette is a Korean model, so when I mention Cosette speaking Korean, it's not just out of left field. I hope you enjoy!

Grantaire hadn’t been kidding about the asshook. He finishes the last knot and steps back, letting his eyes rake an appraising gaze over his network of carefully placed ropes. Cosette looks like a dream. A kinky dream, but a dream nonetheless. She’s suspended at waist height from a series of steel loops drilled and anchored into the ceiling. Her arms are bent at the elbows and secured behind her back in an altered dragonfly sleeve, which is attached to the elaborate chest piece that had taken Grantaire thirty minutes just on it alone.

She is facing the ground with her head slightly higher than her hips to relieve the pressure off her chest. Her legs are bent and spread frog-style with her thighs and lower legs wrapped together. Four strands of ropes are settled around her inner thighs at the hip junction to support her weight more evenly.

The finishing touch is the rope tied around her ponytail, fed through one of the ceiling hooks, and attached to a gleaming silver asshook. The hook is currently dangling right above said ass, and when it is in place, Cosette’s back will be arched just so unless she wants to shift the hook uncomfortably.

“How do you feel? Supported enough? Can you breathe easily?” Grantaire is still searching for any sign of danger or weak points.

“It’s actually pretty comfortable right now. Easy to breathe. No real pressure on my chest,” Cosette replies.

Jehan steps up beside Grantaire and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ve outdone yourself, R. This is beautiful.” Grantaire resists the urge to say something contrary. He goes for the deflection.

“Do you see any problem areas?” Grantaire knows there aren’t, but then again. Just to be sure. Jehan fixes him with a look. He remembers that look.

“None at all.” Okay, point taken.

“Let’s get this going, boss. We’ve got about thirty minutes before she needs to get down.” Courfeyrac claps and makes some vague hand gestures at Bossuet and Musichetta.

“Okay folks, you heard the man. Quiet on set!” The murmurs die down and chairs squeak as those not needed during the scene take seats.

“Cameras rolling,” Bossuet calls.

“And action,” Courf calls. Musichetta does a long, slow pan over Cosette as she wriggles and pulls at the ropes, looking around and craning her neck around to see behind her. The lights are bright enough for good visibility but soft enough to make her silhouette seem ethereal. Jehan really outdid himself on the positioning of lights.

Grantaire pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it at Enjolras who’s sitting beside Courf at the monitors. He catches it out of the air gives him the same look Jehan had. A thrilling and terrifying thought of those two together hits his spine like ice. He shakes it off and refocuses. He’s barefoot and still in his black jeans from earlier, although they are admittedly a little less clean, with the squirting and such.

“Hello there, pet.” Grantaire steps into frame and slides a hand down Cosette’s side, ending with a smack to her ass. She starts, and he does it again. She sways slightly in her bonds, but otherwise doesn’t move. He comes around to her head and places a hand on the back of her neck and the other under her chin, tilting her head up to look at him. “How do you feel?”

“Restricted,” is her deadpan reply. A girl after his own heart. “Sir,” she adds after a pause. Grantaire laughs.

“I think you’re having trouble focusing properly. Lucky for you, I have just the remedy.” He comes around behind her where she’s spread completely open for him. He runs a finger up through her folds and over her asshole, watching her shiver and clench. She’d cleaned and prepped herself in between scenes and the barest hint of lube glistens in the middle of her puckered hole.

He leans in and licks a firm strip over her hole with a flat tongue, reveling in the gasp she gives him. He continues his ministrations, alternating between lapping at the rim and probing just inside until she’s a writhing mess.

“Do you like that, baby?” He holds her cheeks open and laves his tongue around the her rim again.

“Yes, please, oh god, please Sir,” she babbles. It hasn’t even been five minutes and she’s already coming undone on his tongue. He slips a couple fingers into her dripping pussy, and she tightens around them, moaning openly.

“Please Sir, what? What are you asking me for?”

“Please don’t stop. Please, Sir,” she begs.

“You’re all disobedience and sass until someone licks your dirty little asshole, and then you find your manners, huh?”

Grantaire pulls his fingers out of her pussy and smears them over her rim before pressing just the tip of one finger inside. She jumps at the intrusion but settles into it quickly. He’s pleased to find that she’s still slick and open, but takes the opportunity to lean out of frame and squirt some lube onto his fingers when the cameras are getting close up shots of her face and ass.

He presses one finger in again, this time up his first knuckle, and flexes it, pressing in all directions. She clenches around him, and he slides his free hand over her hip, gripping firmly. When she relaxes a bit, he slides his finger in all the way, leaning down to lick around the puckered skin surrounding his finger.

“Fuuuck,” she says, just above a whisper. He rewards her with another finger, scissoring and flexing them. This time when she clenches around him he smacks her on the ass hard, loving the yelp she gives and the redness that instantly blooms over her skin.

Grantaire often switches between gentle caresses and sudden painful slaps or jolts. He likes to keep people guessing—it keeps their attention fully on the matter at hand.

His third finger goes in smoothly, and he works them in and out, licking around her rim and slipping his tongue in between his fingers. Her words are no longer intelligible, and he counts that as a win.

When he lets his fingers slip out of her completely, he really can’t help himself. He slides his tongue inside her one more time, eliciting a keening noise as she struggles with her bindings. He can’t tell if she’s trying to get away from overstimulation or move closer to his mouth, but when he leans back and wipes his mouth, she groans at the loss.

Musichetta moves in for a tight shot of her ass as she clenches and unclenches around nothing but air, and Grantaire takes the moment to wipe his hands with the cleansing cloth Jehan hands him.

When Chetta steps back, he rubs some lube on the ball at the end of the hook and slowly pulls it down level with Cosette’s ass, arching her back as the rope attached to her ponytail goes taut and keeps moving. He rubs it around her reddened hole, the chilly metal making her squeak and jerk in surprise. She’s still moving her arms as much as possible, which admittedly isn’t much.

Grantaire presses the ball against her ass, this time with firm and unrelenting pressure and sees her visibly relax in order for him to push it in. He slides a soothing hand down her spine and shushes her quietly.

“Ohh,” she cries when the ball is seated, and tries to let her head fall, but isn’t able. Grantaire steps around in front of her and leans in close. She looks purely debauched. Her face is flushed, she’s panting, and tears have smeared her carefully placed mascara down her cheeks.

“Color?” He whispers.

“Green, Sir,” she replies.

He reaches up and grasps the rope above where her hair is knotted into it and gives it a tug.

“Oh, fuck,” she cries out. 

“That means everything is placed perfectly,” Grantaire tells her, smiling into her glassy eyes. He walks back to the wall behind her, selecting a sturdy, black crop.  
He runs it up and down her spine. Trembling, she tries to turn her head enough to see what he’s holding. Unfortunately, or fortunately, whichever, she just pulls against the hook and groans, turning back forward. 

“I’ve got your attention now, don’t I?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies dutifully.

“I thought so.” He brings the crop down against her ass, and she jumps, more from surprise than pain. She’s beginning to realize how every twitch of her head, no matter how tiny, will shift the hook.

He brings the crop down again and again, the smacks getting louder as the hits get harder. When the right side of her ass is bright red and hot, he rubs the abused skin with the leather of the crop.

“Your skin turns such beautiful colors for me.” He brings the crop down on the left side while digging his fingers into the reddened skin of her right.

“Fucking, jesus christ,” she grounds out, going rigid.

“First pink.” Another smack. “Then red.” Two more in quick succession. “Then bright red.” Five more fall before he drops the crop and squeezes with both hands, kneading into her tender, hot flesh.

“Ahhh, fucking,” the words temper out into mumbling as she switches to Korean.

“You’re being very loud,” Grantaire admonishes. He picks up the crop and comes around to face her. He inclines his head slightly, keeping a careful watch on her face. When she replies with a minute nod, he grins and undoes his pants, freeing his cock.

“Open for me,” he says, sliding forward into the wet heat of her mouth when she does open. With her head tilted back, he’s able slip all the way down and into her throat with little resistance.

“Fuck, yes. That should help out with the shouting.” He stares down at her for a few seconds and pulls back slightly so that her nose isn’t buried in his lower abdomen.

“What do you say?”

“Ank oo, Shir,” she manages around his dick.

“You’re welcome,” He replies, mentally tallying how many times she’s going to kick his ass under the pretense of ‘sparring’ before she makes him cry.  
He’ll probably deserve it by the time this shoot is over.

Thrusting slowly but deeply, he fucks her mouth, watching as he disappears completely into her mouth before pulling back. God, her mouth is fucking phenomenal. Remembering why he’s still holding the crop, he brings it down on her upper back a few times, relishing how it makes her throat constrict around the head of his cock. After a few more slaps and more than a few thrusts—honestly, she is almost as good at deep-throating as Enjolras is—he steps away, leaning down and kissing her full on the mouth, biting her already swollen bottom lip and pulling it out a bit before letting go.

“Such a good girl. I’m gonna take good care of you.”

He tucks himself back into his pants and goes back to the wall of fun things to grabs the Hitachi wand and a willowy cane. He left a few loops near the bottom of her abdomen when he was doing the knots down there, creating a perfect sling to hold the Hitachi to her clit. He tucks the cane under his arm and ducks down under her to slip the wand into place. He tugs at a certain strand of rope and pulls it tight, securing the head of the wand snugly in place.

“Can you tell what that is?” he asks her.

It’s impossible for Cosette to look down at what he did without injuring herself, so she’s blissfully unaware. She had mentioned a fondness for Hitachis, and multiple and forced orgasms were on her ‘yes, please’ list, so Grantaire went there.

“No, Sir,” she answers, voice rough from swallowing Grantaire down so many times in a row.

“Perfect,” he replies simply, and begins tapping the cane on the bottom of her left foot just hard enough to not be considered lightly. The cane he chose is snappy and flexible, good for leaving nice stripes without much residual bruising.

He’s had this done to him before by the asshole sitting to his right, and he knows it fucking hurts. She’s instantly making little ‘ah, ah’ noises and twisting her foot around trying to retract it as much as possible. It’s an unconscious reaction that happens when someone is caning your feet. Grantaire knows. He switches to the right foot and gives it the same treatment.

“Hold your feet still.” She takes a few deep breaths and does.

“Yes, Sir.”

Her voice has gone quiet and breathy. That’s the moment he's been waiting for. After a couple more taps to her feet, he brings the cane down with purpose against her thigh just below the curve of her ass. She cries out, forgetting not to move her head and tugging the hook sharply.

“Easy, now. You can take it. _Breathe_.” He puts a steadying hand on her hip and swings again, this time getting both legs just below the first hit.  
“Jesus, ahhhh,” she pants, trying to take a deep breath, but Grantaire makes another stripe crisscrossing the others, this one the hardest hit thus far.

He swings over and over, laying angry welts across her thighs and ass until she’s sobbing and limp.

Then he reaches down and brings the Hitachi to life, flicking it to the highest setting.

Cosette throws her head back and screams. Like an actual ‘I’m being murdered’ scream. He tosses the cane away, and undoes his pants one last time, freeing his renewed erection (seriously, he made her _scream_ ) before sliding into her dripping, spasming cunt.

“Fuck,” he moans, gripping her hips and thrusting hard. He can feel the vibrations from the wand, and he has to think about very sick puppies and homeless kittens to stop from coming right then and there.

Cosette herself seems to be vibrating as she moans and sobs, pulling and twisting her body unconsciously from over-stimulation.

“Please, please, Sir, can I come? Please, please, oh my god, I can’t hold on,” she begs. Grantaire keeps thrusting, hard and fast, pulling her backward to meet his hips.

“Yes, let go. Come for me. I wanna feel you come on my cock,” Grantaire tells her, voice low and gruff. She comes quickly and loudly and very, very wetly. Grantaire thrusts a few more times and eases out of her, reaching down and turning the vibration setting down a notch.

Here’s the thing about Hitachis, though. They have two settings—high and highest. So, even as low as it goes, it’s still more than the most powerful bullet or dildo. Cosette has lost the power of speech. Grantaire goes to her side and leans down by her ear.

“Color?” He has to bring his ear right to her lips, but he hears her sigh and whisper back.

“Green.” He strokes her flyaway hairs back from her tear and sweat-soaked face.

“Good girl. I bet you can come a few more times.”

“Too much,” she sobs. “Too much, Sir.”

“Nonsense,” He says as he steps back behind her and presses two fingers inside her to rub across her G-spot. She goes rigid and comes again.

The cameras are focused solely on Cosette so Grantaire slicks his cock with some lube—although as wet as he is from Cosette’s pussy, he’s not sure he needs it—and pulls the ball of the hook out of her ass without ceremony. Her chest is heaving with the effort of not coming apart at the seams after having two orgasms ripped out of her in five minutes.

Her asshole is red and puffy after her head-thrashing orgasms, but he slides in with little resistance, sheathing himself completely inside her. She’s still quaking, her voice too ragged for words. The wand is still happily vibrating away, as Grantaire fucks into her ass as deeply as he can. She’s tight and slick and impossibly hot, and Grantaire doesn’t hesitate to dig his fingers into her hips and impale her on his cock over and over. The ropes are creaking where they are against each other as he swings her backward over and over. The only sounds in the room are the ropes and Cosette’s moaning and the slap of flesh on flesh, and Grantaire is so close he can _taste_ it. Cosette lets out a broken cry and comes one more time, sagging limply with her chin on her chest now that she’s able. She clenches around him so tightly that it hurts. A few thrusts later, and Grantaire comes, pulling out of Cosette and painting thick stripes of come across her ass and thighs.

He flicks the Hitachi off and pulls his pants back up so he can walk properly. He comes back around to face Cosette and kisses her deeply, tongue exploring every inch of her mouth. She responds as much as she can, and sags into him when he pulls back.

“What do you say?” he asks quietly.

“Thank you, Sir,” she replies raggedly. Her eyes are glassy, and she just hangs, slack and exhausted.

“Good girl,” He tells her and steps away so the cameras can get close up shots of her.

As soon as Courfeyrac calls cut, Grantaire is there with Enjolras and Jehan to get her untied and to the floor. It takes mere minutes to get her completely free. He sits with her slumped against him, arms wrapped around her and alternating between comforting noises and telling her how well she did.

It takes half an hour for her to come down and back to herself completely, and during that time, Enjolras glares everyone out of the room until it’s just the two of them. Grantaire is rubbing the circulation back into her arms and working knots out of her shoulders when she speaks.

“You are mean and awful and a fucking god, and I am going to kick your ass next time we go to the gym.” Her voice is still gravelly, but she’s herself again.  
“I’m going to put that on my résumé. Grantaire: Fucking god.”

“Not the point. I hate you.”

“I know.” They’re going to have to get cleaned up soon so they can do their exit interview. They stay seated on the floor. Sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes the sub gets untied, and both parties laugh and get cleaned up and go home. Other times, that connection, that time to decompress and leave the mindset behind is necessary, for the sub _and_ the dom.

“I don’t hate you.”

“I know.”

“You were perfect.”

“Thank you, Madame. Means a lot coming from you.”

She shifts closer to him and sighs.

“I forgot how this could make me feel so wrung out.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly go easy on you.” He strokes his fingers along her thigh in little circles.

She sleepily mumbles something in Korean.

“I don’t know what that means, Cosette.”

“Marius would.”

“Okay, c’mon.” He ushers her up and toward the showers, arm still around her. Enjolras is waiting in the hallway. When he sees them approaching, he pushes off the wall he’s leaning on and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Call Marius, please.” Enjolras has his phone to his ear before they disappear around the corner. Something warm and tight bursts in Grantaire’s chest and he has to tamp down the urge to cry. He is so lucky. How is he this lucky?

They wash quickly, Grantaire helping Cosette until Marius bursts in and takes over. Apparently, he was already on his way in to see how she was doing.

Cosette somehow summons a bright smile and charming demeanor for their exit interview. As soon as the cameras are off, though, she kisses Grantaire on the cheek and leaves with Marius in tow, promising to text Grantaire later.

Enjolras takes her spot and kisses him in the same place she did, carding his hands through Grantaire’s hair, catching his scalp with fingernails every so often.

“I need a cigarette,” says Grantaire. _And a drink,_ he doesn’t add.

“I’m keeping my promise from earlier, just not today. We’ll do it tomorrow.” Grantaire is flattered by Enjolras’ optimism. He is bone-achingly tired.

“Or next week.”

“Of course.” He smirks at Grantaire. “It’ll give me time to plan better.”

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know if you find any mistakes or just what you think about this chapter. Comments seriously make my day, so thank you for the ones already posted on chapter one. Enjolras' promise to Grantaire will be explored in the next chapter. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why touch thy soft lute  
> Till the thunder was mute,  
> Why was not I crush'd -- such a pitiful germ?  
> O Delphic Apollo!  
> \--Hymn to Apollo, Keats
> 
>  
> 
> Grantaire has a slight break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh. Yeah, I don't know. This happened before I could stop it. The next chapter is the promised sexy chapter, and it's already written. This is mostly an unhappy chapter. I added some tags, so heed the tags. All mistakes are my own, guys. Enjoy.

It’s been a week and Grantaire still hasn’t had time to let Enjolras fulfill his promise. In that week, he’s done three photo shoots, two porn ones and one art one, finished three commissions, and began the preparations for a new gallery showing. He hasn’t seen Enjolras in person since the morning after the shoot when he stayed the night and has only talked to him on the phone twice. Their texts have even been few and far between as well. It’s starting to get to him.

Currently, he’s drawing fairytales.

“Can you draw one with a tiger?” Annabelle asks, stuffing another carrot stick in her mouth. Allen and Barbara, Annabelle’s paternal grandparents, had agreed that Grantaire could keep her one weekend a month after she’d gotten settled.

He is currently drawing illustrations of fairytales as told by Annabelle. He’s feeling ragged, but he’s also fucking thrilled.

“What’s the tiger doing, B?” he asks, flipping a new page over gorilla Rapunzel.

“Um, I think she’s trying to find the magic watering hole that grants wishes.”

“Ah, of course.” He starts on an outline of a tiger, opening his mouth when a carrot stick comes at him and grabbing it between his teeth. The last two went up his nose.

“And where is the magic, wish-granting watering hole?”

“Probably over that way,” she replies, pointing at the top right corner. He finishes the tiger, complete with a tiara because, _“everyone needs a tiara, Uncle R,”_ and starts on the surroundings.

“What’s she gonna wish for?” he asks her, passing the blue pencil over so she can start coloring the sky.

“For everyone she loves to be in one place all the time,” she says, looking up at him with his sister’s imploring eyes.

Well, fuck.

He puts his pencil down and turns his stool at his breakfast bar to face her. She mimics him and waits, like a tiny adult.

“Belle, is that the tiger’s wish? Or yours?” He can definitely do the adult thing here. He can be an adult, goddammit.

“Well, the tiger got it from me,” she shrugs, like, _“tigers steal wishes, what do you want from me?”_

“Do you like living with your Gran and Pop?”

“Yeah, they’re good.” She fiddles with a purple pencil, looking down. “I just miss Mommy. And you,” she says quietly.

Lori is still in rehab. She had gone in almost three months ago and is, apparently, doing well. It’s definitely the longest she’s ever stayed by about two and a half months. Grantaire is trying to be supportive while also trying to not hope for too much. He loves his sister, but well. History isn’t on her side.

Still, three months is a great start. He knows all about the one-day-at-a-time thing.

“I know, little B. I miss you when you’re not around too.” He reaches out and puts a hand on her arm, rubbing up and down. “But, you have a place up in Huntington. A place in your school with your friends, a place in your tae kwon do class, and a place with your grandparents. Just like I have a place here where I work and do my paintings and see my friends.” He could tell her that her mommy won’t be gone forever and that she’ll see her again soon, but he never lies to her.

“And a place with E?” She still couldn’t say Enjolras’ name. It always came out ‘Onjolass’, and Grantaire dutifully laughed each time.

“Yeah, and a place with E.” He sighs, knowing she will understand, but hating being unable to make it better. “Listen, B. You’ve had a life much tougher than a lot of people much older than you. You’re a smart girl, so I know you know that. But, you have a chance right now for a life that’s everything you deserve. Your grandparents can give that to you. They love you, and they want to give you a chance to grow up into the best Annabelle you can be.” She looks at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. He realizes the triteness of the last part, but hopes she doesn’t notice it. She is only five, after all.

“That was a smart speech. I believe you.” Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief. She looks down at the drawing and picks up the blue pencil again. “Can we finish the picture? Tiger can wish for all the fish she can eat instead.”

“Sure thing, baby. You can draw the fish up here,” he points, drawing the outline of a thought bubble where the wish-fish can reside.

And that was that. He spent the next day fixing grilled cheeses and pushing Annabelle on the swings at the park and watching her do tae kwon do (which is to say, being kicked in the shins repeatedly). By the time Allen had come by to pick her up, Grantaire was utterly exhausted, an insistent headache pressing in at his temples as the rest of the prior week caught up with him.

He walks back up to his apartment, meaning to get some aspirin and lie down before Enjolras arrives for their date night, but ends up in his studio. He’d set the master bedroom up as his work area because of the exquisite light in this room. There are stacks of canvases, wooden pieces for new canvases he hadn’t built yet, a couple easels, half-finished paintings, and heaps and heaps of paints and brushes scattered around the place. The floor is covered with plastic sheeting that gets replaced whenever it becomes too soiled.

A soft loveseat had been placed against the far wall for when Grantaire runs himself too ragged and ends up sleeping in here. The side table, covered in water bottles and soaking brushes and dirty dishes, is what Grantaire ends up focusing on.

A picture, left there by Joly, sits propped up against an empty cereal bowl.

In it, Grantaire is speaking, a wide smile on his face and left arm above his head gesticulating, with Enjolras against his right side, an amused twist in his lips, looking at Grantaire like _he_ is the sun.

_Why was I not crush’d?_

In his darkest times, Grantaire still understands nothing of his relationship with Enjolras. Bright, white-hot, blinding Enjolras. Icarus doesn’t apply to him, he would never be so careless or low-thinking as to accept wings with limitations, but Grantaire can see him in his mind’s eye, soaring to the sun and laughing in the face of all that destructive heat. It could never be a match for him. Still, Grantaire picks up a brush and starts to paint on a fresh canvas, giving him wings, spread wide and ready for battle, sword in hand.

Perhaps he’s more like an angel with golden fire, brimming with righteous fury and disdain for his enemies, beings beneath him, how dare they crawl and offend the very existence of God?

That still isn’t right, though. Enjolras isn’t one for religion—his fury is turned to those who don’t believe in what can be achieved. It’s all so easy for him, the unwavering belief. Grantaire has never known that, or had it beaten and burned out of him when he was too young to remember what it felt like.

And still. Here’s Enjolras looking at him like _he’s_ the very sun. Like those wax and feather wings could still melt away in Grantaire’s presence, and he doesn’t shy away. Just happily falls laughing into the sea.

Grantaire still paints, working intently on the sun and the way its light falls on Enjolras’ hair, fanning out in a bright ring of amber light. 

Grantaire doesn’t want to be the one to drown Enjolras. (That word, _drown_ , still trips him up, sends a shiver of terror down his spine, and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ , he’s going to die, die here in this bathtub, in this house, and why is this happening? What did he do?)

He shakes off the feeling of two lungs full of liquid, and tries to focus on the matter at hand. His strokes are becoming feverish, paint dripping all over the plastic-lined floor as he tries to get something close to what’s in his brain onto the canvas, but it’s not working.

Grantaire keeps thinking of a golden, soaring Enjolras falling into the sea because Grantaire is unable to fly with him. Unable to believe with the same fervor and flame. (And Grantaire knows, knows in his bones that he is capable of that belief, but only in Enjolras himself, which can’t possibly be good enough.)

He slumps to the floor, exhausted and shaking and covered in paint, mostly shades containing cadmium yellow.

Grantaire wants to cry. He wants to scream and rage. He wants to go to sleep for weeks.

He truly wants to get stunningly, blindingly drunk.

Instead, he takes a shower and dresses in whatever is closest to him on the floor upon entering his bedroom. Then he leaves the apartment. No phone, no wallet. Just his keys, his bus pass, and the clothing on his back.

There are times when life is too much, when his blood buzzes and itches. He used to go out and drink until the buzzing went away and then pick a fight with someone. Didn’t matter if he won or lost, as long as he got to land a few punches and preferably caught a couple too.

Now, though, he has to find other ways to cope. They aren’t often healthy, but he hasn’t slipped up in the past year, nine months and twelve days, so occasionally, he lets himself indulge. He walks to the bus stop as the sun dips past the horizon. The last time he really remembers noting the time was that morning when he kissed Annabelle and strapped her into her seat in Allen’s car.

Even now, thirty minutes away from his destination, he’s feeling calmer. The bus ride is uneventful, and he disembarks into the industrial district, keeping an eye on his surroundings.

The industrial district is a sprawling, half-dead cap at the north end of town. The businesses that are left are few and far between with a large population of the homeless squatting in the numerous abandoned buildings. The air here seems oppressive and hopeless, but Grantaire can’t feel it. He hasn’t felt this energized in weeks. 

When he reaches the old machine shop at 546 Bradford Street, he turns down the alley beside the building and slips inside a rusted metal door. As soon as he steps inside, muted sounds of fists hitting bare flesh and excited whoops and yells permeate the silence.

His feet take him down a circuit of hallways before he pushes a swinging door open in the back of the building, the sounds suddenly becoming clear and deafening. He stands at the back of the circle watching two men grappling on the floor. The larger of the two seems tired, his punches slowing and lacking power. The smaller man dodges and throws a fist straight up into the other’s jaw. He heaves the now dazed man off himself and gets up, stretching his neck back and forth. After a few seconds of showy, taunting bullshit, the smaller man aims a kick at the other’s temple and the fight ends.

The winner raises his fists into the air and receives cheers and applause, much to his delight. The leader, a crusty-looking, paunchy man, walks into the circle and waves the winner off, patting him on the back and lightly shoving him to the side of the ring.

“Who’s next?” he asks, turning in a circle and searching for any takers.

“Me,” Grantaire calls, pushing through the crowd and stepping into the middle of the ring.

“Ah, Grantaire! I’ve missed you!” the leader calls, slinging an arm around him and turning to look at the crowd once again. “Who wants to face our lovely Grantaire?” 

Grantaire doesn’t appreciate the arm on his shoulders,—he doesn’t even know the guy’s name—but it doesn’t last long. A lean, wiry man steps up, grinning and raising a hand in the air.

“I’ll face the mouthy fucker,” he says, British accent turning ‘fucker’ into ‘focka’. Ah, Montparnasse. Grantaire huffs out a laugh.

“I thought you were in jail, ‘Parnasse,” Grantaire says, smirking.

“‘Ey never keep me for long,” he replies. They face each other, and the man in charge steps back.

“Whenever you’re ready, boys,” he says. Montparnasse was an acquaintance of Jehan’s who was upgraded to a one-night stand of Grantaire’s years ago. They have a healthy rivalry, meeting more than once here in the ring and a couple times at parties, mostly before Grantaire got sober. Montparnasse is a professional criminal, but Grantaire doesn’t ask specifics and he doesn’t offer them. No one knows how he even ended up in the States in the first place.

What he likes about the guy is that he never pulls his punches and never, ever gives up. They’ve won an equal amount of matches with each other, and Grantaire always leaves sore and satisfied.

He doesn’t question why his hobbies tend to leave him like that.

They circle each other, not speaking. Montparnasse throws the first punch, a quick jab to the cheek, but Grantaire dodges it. He leans back on his right foot, bending his knee, and ducks the one that follows, aiming a fast punch to the solar plexus. Montparnasse moves back lightly, and the hit only barely connects. Not even enough to register.

They continue this dance of forward and backward motion for a few moments, blocking and ducking, before they stop with the dramatics and get to business.  
Grantaire gets a good hit in to Montparnasse’s eye, but that brings him close long enough for him to return the favor just below Grantaire’s cheekbone. They return punches and later kicks, and much later elbows and knees for what feels like no time at all, but they are both dripping sweat and panting heavily by the time the fight turns truly dirty.

Grantaire watches closely as Montparnasse telegraphs an uppercut, which he blocks and gives him one, two, three jabs to the face in quick succession. Montparnasse lands a perfect shot to Grantaire’s eye, and blood explodes from his eyebrow, half-blinding him, pain searing through his head.

He squints through both the blood and the pain, however, and kicks out, catching Montparnasse in the abdomen and follows it with a knee to the forehead.  
Montparnasse goes down to one knee and tries to shake his head clear. Grantaire doesn’t give him time. He knocks him sideways with a staggering hit to the side of his face, and Montparnasse falls onto his side and doesn’t get up. He’s not out cold, but he _is_ done.

Cheers break out, but Grantaire doesn’t stay to bask in his victory. He wipes at his face with his shirt, sure he looks a right state, but doesn’t care as he continues through the building and busts out of the side door into the crisp night air.

He waits on a bench at the bus stop, positive that no one will fuck with him right now, but fifteen minutes in, someone sits next to him and sighs.

Eponine grabs him by the chin and turns his head toward her, poking at the cut above his left eye.

‘”Jesus, R,” she says quietly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Refraining from doing something stupid by doing something just as stupid but not as destructive.”

“It looks pretty goddamn destructive.”

“How’d you find me?” He swipes at the sluggishly bleeding cut with his shirt again.

“Enjolras called me in a panic, said he was supposed to meet you at your place, but you were an hour late and didn’t leave a message or take your phone, so I made a few calls.”

“I beat the shit out of ‘Parnasse.” She laughs, and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her bag, lighting one for herself and offering one to Grantaire. He takes it, and she sparks it for him.

“He mentioned something like that. Still seemed a bit out of it.” Eponine knows Montparnasse for some reason unrelated to how any of the rest of their group knows Montparnasse. She hasn’t volunteered the information though, so Grantaire’s never asked. They smoke quietly for a few minutes, punctuated by Grantaire wiping at his eye and Eponine side-eyeing him.

“You can’t keep doing this when you spiral. Come see me, go see your boyfriend, take Gav somewhere for the afternoon, I don’t fucking care. Just—just don’t do _this_.”

“How bad is it?” he asks her, taking one last drag and dropping his cigarette down the storm drain.

“Too bad for you to lie to Enjolras, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I figured.” She lights another smoke. “I wouldn’t have tried to lie, even if it was possible. I don’t do that to him.”

“Yeah, but you’ve left out the part about how you occasionally lose your shit and go have someone beat the fuck outta you to feel better.”

“It hasn’t been this bad for a long time. And also, I usually win.” Eponine doesn’t smile, but her lips twitch.

“Yeah, maybe, but afterward, you always look like it could’ve gone either way.” She doesn’t offer him another cigarette, and he doesn’t ask. They’re the only luxury she allows for herself.

The bus shows up, and she puts her cigarette out on the side of the bench. They ride for a couple stops and she gets off, kissing him on the head and smacking him on the cheek, lightly enough that he doesn’t wince, hard enough that he wants to. He still has a little while before his stop—Eponine and Gavroche still live in the ‘between area’ where the University district starts to die and the bad part of town picks up. There aren’t crack houses on every corner, but it’s prudent to carry a weapon and keep an eye open.

Grantaire gets off at his stop and walks a couple blocks to his apartment, stopping when he sees Combeferre’s car parked in the lot. Turning, he walks back past where the bus left him and goes a few more streets over, going up the well-worn steps of a small but picture-esque house. He taps on the door lightly, waits for movement inside, and steps back, hand brushing the flowers in the pot hanging beside the door.

Musichetta opens the door with a smile that quickly falls off her lips when she sees him. She throws open the screen door and ushers him in.

“Fucking hell, Grantaire, get in here.” Joly and Bossuet look up at him from their couch, a movie paused on their TV. They are up in a second, ushering him to the kitchen where he is promptly shoved into a chair.

“Sorry to interrupt your movie, guys.” Bossuet presses an ice pack into his hand as Joly tilts his head back for a closer look. They are familiar with this. It doesn’t happen often anymore, but it happened enough in the past that they fall into an easy routine.

“How was South Africa?” he asks Joly. He’d just returned a few days ago from a two-month leave in South Africa helping out at one of their clinics. Which makes him feel all the worse for coming here and interrupting them.

“I think you might need a couple stitches.” Joly presses at his eyebrow, and Grantaire winces.

“Fuck. I haven’t looked at it.”

“And it was hot and full of bugs but also full of lovely people.” Joly steps away, and Grantaire presses the ice pack against his eye and cheek. Joly goes to the sink to wash his hands, his med school training taking over.

“Go grab the med kit, would you, Boss?” he asks. Bossuet leaves the room, pressing a hand against Grantaire’s shoulder briefly as he goes.

“What happened?” Joly asks, taking the kit from Bossuet when he returns. He pulls on some blue gloves and begins cleaning the blood off Grantaire’s face. Grantaire doesn’t move as he does this, keeping his face still and taking stock of the aches and pains starting to make themselves known in other areas. When Joly leans back, Grantaire sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. There’s blood matted in it in places, sticky and congealing.

“I fucked up.”

“How did you fuck up?” Musichetta asks, bluntly but not unkindly.

“I was starting to feel out of control again, and I wanted a drink. So, I did the other thing.” They all know what the other thing is. Besides Eponine and Bahorel, he’s probably closest to these three. Joly has patched him up plenty of times, and they’ve all sat up with him through drunken stupors and tense nights where he skirted the line between drinking enough to black out and needing to go to the hospital. His eighteen-month chip is still in the pocket of the pants he left in the bathroom when he took his shower earlier. He hadn’t even taken it with him. Feuilly had quietly presented it to him a few months ago as they were leaving the Musain. It had an intricately carved ‘18’ on it, painted beautifully in hunter green and cream.

“You know we’re here with you, R. You don’t need to do this,” Bossuet reminds him.

“I know. I _know_. It just, it just gets,” he stutters, not knowing how to explain it. “I was looking at that picture, the one you gave me, Joly. Of me and Enjolras when we were celebrating you finishing your residency. And I realized that…” Grantaire stumbles and stops.

“Realized what, honey?” Musichetta asks, softly. She uses endearments like other people breathe. They’re always genuine and make everyone feel like they belong to her. Which, they all pretty much do. She’s the group mom.

“That he’s too good for me. That I’ll fuck it all up. That I’m ridiculously in love with him, and it’ll break me when he’s gone.” Everyone is silent, and when Grantaire finally gets the courage to look up, he sees sadness on ‘Chetta and Joly, but not Bossuet. Bossuet always has a smile on his face, laugh lines and dimples around his mouth mixing with eyes that always seem to crinkle in merriment.

But now, he seems kind of angry. He pushes off the counter where he was leaning and stops in front of Grantaire, making Grantaire have to tilt his head back to get a good look at him. It’s easy to forget how tall Bossuet is when he’s always so genial and non-confrontational. But apparently he can be intimidating. Huh.

“Listen to me, Grantaire. You have issues, yes. But you also have a pretty large group of people who will drop anything to support you when you need it. _Let us support you when you need it_. You let us lean on you, you lift us all up when you know we’re struggling, and it’s okay to let us return the favor.” He speaks earnestly and firmly. “And you are full of shit if you think you aren’t good enough for anyone, Enjolras included. When you feel that way, just call me. Or him. Or anyone. I will kick you if I have to.”

The room is silent once again. Bossuet holds Grantaire’s gaze unflinchingly for a long moment.

“Please don’t.” Grantaire says, trying a tentative, nervous smile. Bossuet smiles thinly but keeps the seriousness in his eyes.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Bossuet hugs him, and Grantaire realizes his ribs hurt.

“Well said, baby.” Musichetta hugs him from behind and kisses the side of his neck. Bossuet smiles big and laughs.

“Thank you,” he replies turning his head to kiss her on the lips. Joly raises his eyebrows, holding a curved needle threaded with neon pink sutures, and looks at Grantaire.

“Okay, I ran out of lidocaine when I had to stitch up Bossuet’s hand last time, so this is gonna hurt, but good news! You probably only need two stitches, so it won’t take long.” Joly’s enthusiasm is hard to ignore, so Grantaire smiles in spite of himself and puts the ice pack on his knuckles instead of his face.

Joly is correct, and it takes about thirty seconds for him to do both stitches. He holds gauze over Grantaire’s eye and pours some saline over the freshly closed cut before covering it with a small bandage. He checks Grantaire over, poking at his ribs and face, and declares him to be bruised but not broken. Grantaire refrains from mentioning his brain being broken because he’s honestly kind of afraid that Bossuet will really kick him.

They let him clean up in their bathroom. He splashes some water over his face, careful not to wet the fresh bandage over his left eye. He does look like a mess. His cheek is bruising nicely, his hair is matted with blood, and when he inspects his ribs, large purple and blue splotches are overtaking the red areas and wrapping around toward his kidney.

He tries to wet his hair enough in the sink to get the blood out but is only partially successful. When he steps back to inspect himself again, he still looks like a mess, but a cleaner one. It’ll have to do. 

On his way out, Musichetta hands him a blueberry muffin and hugs him, which turns into a group hug with Grantaire and a squished muffin in the middle. He turns down their offers of including him in their movie night. He’s imposed on them enough.

Grantaire eats part of the deformed muffin on his way back to his building but throws it into a trash bin when his stomach begins to churn with nerves. He knows that Enjolras will be angry. He deserves to be angry, and to be honest, Grantaire is rather angry with himself.

It would have been so easy to just call Enjolras and go to him. To let him beat him blue with something formidable and then cuddle him for the rest of the night. But, Enjolras was the subject of his freak out, so that probably wouldn’t have helped. Or it would have. He doesn’t know.

He’s gone to Enjolras before for similar reasons, but this was different somehow. He’s spent their entire relationship not quite believing that he is good enough, but also quietly hopeful that maybe he is. Tonight, though. Well, fuck.

Grantaire is getting worked up again because if he can’t put it together in his brain, then he definitely won’t be able to explain it to Enjolras. He stops a block from his apartment and leans his head against the wall of a bank, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to breathe.

He spends longer than he would like breathing at the wall, but when he steps back, the rising anxiety is tamped down a bit.

Mechanically, he walks up the stairs of his building, and down the hallway and straight into his apartment without stopping. If he stops, then he won’t go inside. So he doesn’t. He walks in and closes the door and doesn’t acknowledge Enjolras and Combeferre sitting on his couch.

He goes straight to the kitchen, flips on the coffee pot, and opens a window so he can smoke like a chimney out of it. Thankfully, his pack of cigarettes is sitting in the windowsill where he left them.

He hears a quiet, indistinguishable conversation from the living room, and then the front door opens and closes. He blows smoke out into the night and turns to face Enjolras head-on. No running now.

Enjolras looks like he’s had a rough night too, and Grantaire allows the guilt to flood his system. Enjolras’ hair is everywhere, stuck up at odd angles from fingers running through it over and over. His eyes are red like he’s been rubbing at them, and he just looks _tired_.

Grantaire expected anger, hot and sudden, not sadness and frayed edges.

Enjolras stops in the middle of the room and looks uncertain, which is a strange look on him. He takes in Grantaire’s state, eyes roving over his face and down to his bloody shirt and swollen knuckles.

“Can I hug you?” he asks. Grantaire’s lungs heave out the breath he was holding in and he nods, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray on the sill.

Enjolras gives good hugs. He gives good other things too, but Grantaire will always be partial to his hugs. He wraps Grantaire in a tight embrace, warm and comforting, and just holds him there. Grantaire can feel the tears before they spill out, but when they start, they don’t stop, not for a long time. Enjolras holds him through it, whispering things to him the entire time. Lots of, “It’s alright”, and “I’m here”, and Grantaire’s personal favorite, “I love you.”

When he pulls away to wipe his face on his ruined shirt, he meets Enjolras’ eyes and sees nothing but love in them. His brain wants to fight him on it, but when he blinks and brings a hand up to touch Enjolras’ face, nothing changes. He lost his mind, went out and got punched a lot, left Enjolras with no explanations and made him worry himself sick, and yet…here he is. Still looking at Grantaire like he is the single greatest thing in the world.

Grantaire leads him over to the living room, and Enjolras stretches out, reclining against the arm of the couch and holding an arm out for Grantaire to settle under. He does, and Enjolras tucks him against his side. They both just sit and breathe for a long moment.

“What happened, R?” he asks softly, stroking a hand through Grantaire’s hair.

So, Grantaire tells him. Tells him everything. He explains how out of sorts he’s been feeling the last week, how he hasn’t felt right since that morning after his shoot with Cosette, that he loves his work, both types, but it’s too much sometimes. He tells him about the anxiety and how he wanted to go out and drink as much booze as he could buy, but instead he went and fought Montparnasse.

He doesn’t mention the fact that he won. It seems like a moot point.

And he tells Enjolras how sometimes he can’t stop the feeling that he’s so inadequate, he thinks Enjolras and everyone else would be better off without him.

When he turns to look up at Enjolras, tears are leaking down that perfect face. Through it all, everything Grantaire told him, Enjolras was silent. He didn’t interrupt or tell Grantaire he was wrong. He just listened.

Enjolras leans down and kisses him, long and gentle. They move as one, leaving the couch and moving to the bedroom. Enjolras slowly undresses Grantaire, kissing every bruise he encounters. He peppers kisses across Grantaire’s face, his hands, his chest, his ribs, his back. Grantaire lets him, a hand stroking through those blonde curls when Enjolras kneels to kiss his bruised ribs. 

When Grantaire is completely naked, Enjolras presses him back onto the bed and strips himself. He fingers Grantaire open, using his tongue between his fingers, licking into him and taking his time in making Grantaire fall apart.

Grantaire’s mind vaguely notes how funny it is that he can come apart in two different ways in one day.

When Enjolras finally, _finally,_ slides into him, Grantaire relaxes and tries to shift his hips forward to take more of him, but is stopped with insistent yet tender pressure from Enjolras’ hands on his hips. Enjolras makes love to him, never taking his eyes or hands from Grantaire, and it’s figuratively the barest and most open Grantaire has ever felt. Enjolras keeps one hand on Grantaire’s hip and the other around his throat, not squeezing but pressing lightly. The meaning is clear to Grantaire. _You’re mine._ When he comes, staring straight into Enjolras’ gaze, it’s without even a touch to his cock. If his eyes weren’t currently rolled back in ecstasy, he might marvel at being able to come untouched, but the only thing he understands right now is completion, both in bed and in life. He could die right at this very moment and never wish for anything more than this. Enjolras thrusts erratically a few more times and follows Grantaire over the edge.

They lie there afterward, not moving or speaking, and right before Grantaire drifts into sleep, Enjolras sleepily tells him he loves him.

Grantaire believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, okay. Well, after all that angst, who's ready for some sexy times? Good, cause I'm posting the next chapter right now. Come say hi at my [tumblr](www.agentxinfinity.tumblr.com). <3<3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire learns exactly how committed Enjolras is to giving him what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the sex! *throws glitter*
> 
> (Watch the tags for things that might be trigger-y. <3)

Grantaire removes his stitches himself five days later while Enjolras sits on the side of the bathtub and watches.

“You’re pretty good at that,” he remarks.

“I’ve had lots of practice. Joly got tired of me taking them out and mangling his work, so he taught me how to do it.” Enjolras gets an unreadable look on his face. Grantaire sighs.

“Out with it.”

“Just the fact that you’ve had to do this so many times that Joly taught you to remove them yourself. I don’t know. It makes me…sad, I guess. I don’t like it.” Grantaire finishes up, wiggling his eyebrow in the mirror and gauging the pain from it. It’s not terrible.

“Everyone has their stories, Enjolras. Mine just have physical representations.” He turns and kneels between Enjolras’ legs, looking up at him and resting his hands on Enjolras’ knees. “You don’t need to worry. I’m okay. And I promise I’ll let you know the next time I’m not.” This is a reassurance he’s echoed many times in the last few days. Enjolras has been treating him like a spooked horse and it’s starting to give him a complex. Another complex. On top of his others.

“But what fuels that need? The need to fight? Is it the pain? Or the physicality?” Enjolras has a great need to understand everything about Grantaire and his brain. It’s kind of cute, but also kind of irritating. Grantaire stands up so that Enjolras is now looking up at _him_.

“I don’t really know. Why does it matter, Enjolras?”

“I just want to understand. If it’s pain, then I can do that. You _know_ I can.” And that right there tells Grantaire why Enjolras can’t leave this alone. He’s jealous. He doesn’t understand why he needed to go let Montparnasse punch him all over the place when Enjolras could have beaten and fucked him silly.

“Okay, c’mon. Let’s do this somewhere else.” Grantaire wants to sit down for this, and he’s not going to dive into his fucked-up brain while sitting on the toilet, even with the lid closed.

He also needs to stall in order to form some type of answer. Grantaire wasn’t lying. He truly doesn’t know. He’s wondered about it before too, but never come up with an answer better than it being related to why he likes pain with his sex also. He just does.

They sit down on the couch facing each other, knees bent in a mirror image.

“So, you’re jealous. You’re jealous that I didn’t come to you.”

“Well, yeah. I am,” Enjolras replies openly. Grantaire takes a minute to think.

“I’m not entirely sure why I do what I do, but I get this feeling like electricity in my veins, and I can’t stay still or think straight, and fighting helps me focus on something long enough to get through it. I don’t know why. I’m not even sure if getting punched is part of the reason. I think it might be that I prefer people I can let go and have it out with, and those people just happen to be ones who are able to hit me.” Grantaire thinks about this rambling explanation and declares it more or less correct.

“So, it’s the physical altercation aspect?”

“Yeah, I suppose. More than anything.”

“Do you like that in your scene play? When you’re subbing, I mean? I know it’s not a limit, but we’ve never really discussed it beyond you liking it when you’re in the dominant role.” This conversation is morphing into a kink discussion, and Grantaire is so okay with that.

“I’ve never subbed with anyone who’s able to overpower or subdue me, so I never explored it. If I have to fake losing, I’m sure it would take me out of the right head space.” Enjolras thinks for a few minutes, looking thoughtfully to the right of Grantaire’s head. When his attention snaps back to Grantaire, it’s evident that he has an idea.

“What kind of martial arts do you practice?”

“Uh, judo and jiu-jitsu mostly. The soft arts, less strikes and more grappling and ground work. Joint holds and submissions. As far as my fighting style goes, though, it’s a mix of martial arts and boxing, I guess.”

“How would you say karate fits in with your style?” he asks, head tilted, and that is definitely his idea head-tilt.

“Well, it depends on what kind of karate we’re talking here. Traditional Okinawan or something more blended like American?” Enjolras just furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head.

“I have no idea.” Grantaire doesn’t understand this conversation.

“I don’t understand this conversation,” he says.

“Would Bahorel know about your fighting style?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Was that a question or an answer?”

“Was what a question or an answer?” Grantaire smiles.

“Stop it,” Enjolras orders.

“Yes, Sir,” Grantaire says, smiling wider still.

“How long before you’ll be up to a sparring match or something equivalent?” Grantaire thinks on this, fingers pressing lightly at his ribs. He didn’t bruise his ribs themselves this time, if the quick decrease in pain is anything to go by, only the superficial flesh. It’s only been five days, and he can already move pretty normally. He hazards a guess.

“Four days probably.”

“We’ll give it a week.” Enjolras gets up and goes to the door, slipping on his shoes and jacket. Grantaire gets up and follows him, confused.

“What,” he says helpfully.

“I still owe you what I promised during your shoot with Cosette. And I’m going to deliver. Next Wednesday, if you’re free.” Grantaire pulls his phone from his pocket and checks his calendar.

“After three okay? I have a meeting with the gallery director at noon, and she always has like seventy different ideas to discuss.”

“Yeah, add me to your calendar. _Enjolras is going to take me down and make me beg._ ” He kisses Grantaire’s surprised mouth and grins like the bastard devil he is before slipping out of the apartment and leaving Grantaire standing by the door wondering what the hell just happened.

***

Grantaire is fidgeting restlessly in the gallery director’s office, listening to her go over her various ideas for his new showcase. It’s not that they aren’t good ideas, or that he’s not excited as all fuck to be in this situation. He’s grateful that people like his art enough to hang it up and pay for it, and Brianna is brilliant at her job. But in one hour, he will be facing Enjolras with only a vague idea about what is going to be happening to him, and he’s so ready to be there that, at the moment, he doesn’t really care much about the color of tinted lighting in the back right corner of the showcase room.

“Since we’re putting the reimagined fairytales in that corner, maybe the soft yellow? It could mimic the sunlight. All of those pieces are very vibrant and bright. What do you think?” Brianna is sketching out a simple layout with descriptions and arrows. Grantaire tries to bring his focus back to the showcase.

“I think soft yellow or even light blue would both work alright, but I want the conflict pieces on the opposite wall.”

They go on like that for another half an hour before they both agree on the positioning and lighting choices. Grantaire gives Brianna a quick hug and rushes out the door to the bus stop, hoping the bus will be on time for once.

He bounces his leg up and down on the ride, willing the bus to go faster and thinking about what awaits him at Enjolras’ apartment. He knows that Enjolras and Bahorel have been meeting every day at the boxing gym to “work on things’, but that’s all he’s been told. Bahorel had turned down every offer Grantaire had made him in exchange for information.

When he arrives at Enjolras’ place, he barely even has to knock before the door opens. Combeferre greets him with a wry smile as he slings a messenger bag over his shoulder.

“Hey, Grantaire. I’m being kicked out of my apartment for the next few hours. I hope you two have fun.” He calls out over his shoulder toward the back of the apartment. “Grantaire’s here!” He pats Grantaire on the back as he passes, closing the door on his way out. 

Combeferre is one of the most intimidating people Grantaire knows, which is saying something considering he knows Enjolras. He never minces his words, but at the same time has a quietly dry wit that Grantaire loves and is jealous of in equal measure. He’s probably the smartest person in their group of highly intelligent people. (He is, after all, one of two with the prefix of ‘Dr.’ in front of his name.) He has a doctorate in philosophy, and Grantaire loves to argue with him nearly as much as he likes to argue with Enjolras.

Enjolras comes out of his bedroom in a red t-shirt and low-slung jeans with a black belt. He’s barefoot and has _the look_ on his face. The one that screams _I’m in control here, and you’d better fall in line._ It never fails to make Grantaire at least half-hard.

“Put your bag down, and take off your shoes and socks.” Okay, so they’re doing this right now. After many months of conversations and questions and discussions, they more or less know each other’s kinks and limits pretty well, so they’re able to go for it without much talk beforehand unless something new pops up. Grantaire obeys and leaves his things by the door. He does walk forward after leaving his socks stuffed down in his shoes instead of waiting to be invited into the living room. The furniture has been shoved back against the walls leaving a large open area in the middle. The plush beige rug is the only thing adorning the middle of the room.

Grantaire strides over to Enjolras and stops an arm’s length away, waiting. Enjolras smirks at his unwillingness to wait but doesn’t say anything. He circles Grantaire slowly, grabbing him by the hair when he’s behind him and tilting his head back.

“Tell me your colors.”

“Green for go, yellow for slow down, and red for stop.”

“Good. If you can get past me and out the door then you can leave. If I can subdue you, then I get to play with you for the rest of the day.” Grantaire is suddenly rock hard in his pants. He’s not entirely sure Enjolras can beat him at grappling, but he’s willing to give it a shot. “Tell me if you agree.”

“I do,” he says simply, because he’s a little shit.

“You do what?” Enjolras tightens his grip in Grantaire’s hair.

“I do, Sir,” he replies.

“Better,” Enjolras says, taking a moment to bite Grantaire’s neck before shoving him forward. Grantaire regains his balance and turns, getting a good look at Enjolras for the first time since arriving. His eyes are bright and excited. Even though, to Grantaire’s knowledge, Enjolras has never done this with someone on Grantaire’s level, he shows no hesitancy, nothing but confidence on his features. Grantaire feels the need to warn Enjolras about what he’s getting himself into. He holds his hands out in front of himself, palms out, placating.

“Look, I just need to say before we start, that if I hold back, I’m not gonna get there in my head. So, I’m not gonna hold back, and I don’t want you to. Not even a little. You won’t hurt me worse than I want you to.” Enjolras just nods at him, trusting him.

“Color?” he asks Grantaire.

“Green.”

Enjolras adjusts his stance, and waits for Grantaire to make the first move. So he does. Grantaire heads straight for him, grinning all the way as he shifts at the last moment and dodges to the left. He pivots, intending to shove a forearm against Enjolras’ back to off-balance him, but Enjolras was ready for him. Grantaire’s arm contacts with nothing but open air, causing him to stumble and stick a foot out to keep from tipping over.

While he’s compromised, Enjolras gets behind him and slings an arm around his throat, pulling tightly and locking his hand behind his other arm in a perfect rear naked choke. Jesus, Bahorel did a good job in a week.

Grantaire tries to pry Enjolras’ grip open, which is pretty much the only thing he can do once the hold is locked, but he’s unsuccessful. So, because he is a little shit by nature, he elbows Enjolras in the side and kicks out backward catching him in the shin. The strikes aren’t hard enough to hurt him badly, but they are jarring enough to surprise him. He’s successful—Enjolras’ grip relaxes minutely, but it’s enough for Grantaire to pry his arms open and throw him backward.

When Grantaire spins around to face him, Enjolras has an amused look on his face and doesn’t any look worse for wear. They face off for a second time, Grantaire moving first again. He goes at Enjolras low, but Enjolras moves his arms like he’s going to just try to catch Grantaire. Grantaire grins and goes for a grab that he could easily turn into a choke, but with surprising speed, Enjolras sweeps his leg out and takes Grantaire’s legs out from under him. With a quick loop of his arms, Enjolras locks in a beautiful Americana lock, lying on top of Grantaire’s chest from the side and putting pressure on Grantaire’s neck with his upper arm whilst still holding onto Grantaire’s left arm tightly.

Grantaire is so stunned that he doesn’t even try to struggle at first. He just smiles up at Enjolras because he is _so proud_ that Enjolras learned this much in a week. He tests Enjolras’ grip tentatively and then with more force, but there’s no give. He shifts his hips but Enjolras brings up a knee and plants it on Grantaire’s crotch.

“Are you giving up?” Enjolras asks, lips quirked and eyes full of triumph.

“I’m not sure I have a choice,” he replies and pauses. “Sir.”

“Well, if that’s all you’ve got in you, I think that means I win.” Enjolras is so pleased with himself, and rightfully so. He successfully executed a perfect twisting submission, and Grantaire is indeed trapped.

“I guess it does, Sir.” Grantaire loves his boyfriend.

“I’m going to let go of your arm, and you are going to _stay down,_ ” he tells Grantaire, but Grantaire doesn’t respond. He just smiles. There is no way he’s going down this easily. Enjolras gives his arm a little twist in warning. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Grantaire replies obediently. The second Enjolras releases his arm, Grantaire is grasping Enjolras around his torso and tossing him backward. He scrambles to his feet and waits for Enjolras’ next move.

“Oh, Grantaire. That was very bad of you,” Enjolras says dangerously low as he climbs to his feet. He strides straight ahead with purpose and grabs Grantaire by the throat, walking him backward until he hits the wall. Grantaire is so ridiculously turned on by this that he forgets to even fight him on it. There are a myriad of ways for Grantaire to get free, but he really doesn’t want to. Enjolras tightens his grip until Grantaire begins to struggle to drag air into his lungs and then holds him there for a long moment. Grantaire holds onto Enjolras’ forearms, more just for a grasping point than to try and lessen the pressure around his throat.

Breathplay is definitely on his list of do’s. Enjolras leans in and nips at his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He releases his grip enough for Grantaire to pull in a couple ragged breaths before tightening it again.

“I already had you subdued, which means you’re mine for the day. Your little fit of disobedience just guaranteed that you’re gonna be sore for awhile.” Enjolras is speaking straight into Grantaire’s face, his expression a mix of danger and mischief.

Grantaire already knew he’d be in for it. Enjolras had asked a few days ago when his next shoot was. He had pulled out of his next two shoots when the gallery called with the showcase offer since he’d be too busy to try to do both. So, when he’d answered with three weeks from then, Enjolras had asked him how he felt about marks.

Which, yes, totally and sincerely yes. So, his ass and whatever else was going to be bruised, he knew that.

“Are you feeling penitent?” Enjolras asks, letting up on Grantaire’s throat enough for him to answer.

“Not particularly.” Grantaire takes that moment to bring his arm down across Enjolras’ forearms and knock him backward on his ass. He follows Enjolras down and straddles him, laughing.

Enjolras only smiles slightly, tight-lipped and eyes heavy-lidded.

“I warned you in the beginning not to hold back,” Grantaire says. If this just turns into a wrestling match followed by some rough sex, well, that’s still a damn good afternoon in his book.

While Grantaire is smiling down at his boyfriend, enjoying straddling _him_ for once, Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s wrists and slings him forward over his head so that Grantaire lands on his back with an _oof_ , losing his air for a second. Enjolras holds his wrists with one hand, and quickly snaps a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. He must have hidden them in his back pocket, the sneaky bastard. That’s Grantaire’s trick.

Enjolras removes his belt and loops it around Grantaire’s neck, giving it a good tug to convince Grantaire to get to his feet. The cuffs around his hands aren’t fuzzy or soft. They’re the standard-issue cop cuffs that bite into his wrists uncomfortably, but his hands are cuffed in front of him, so if he can get his fingers in the loop of the belt, he can get free.

The second his hands come above his waist, Enjolras uses the loose end of the belt he’s holding to slap Grantaire’s hands hard.

“Ow, fuck,” he says, because, well, ow.

“Come with me,” Enjolras says, turning and leading him from the room, using the belt like a leash. He keeps it taut enough to make Grantaire’s steps quick and off-balance, effectively limiting Grantaire’s chance of escape before they reach the bedroom.

He releases the belt, letting it hang from Grantaire’s neck, once they get to the bed. Grantaire is shoved unceremoniously onto the bed face first and his arms are pulled upward to the headboard. He scrambles the entire way to release some pressure on his shoulders. The chain connecting the cuffs is clipped into a rotating metal ring Enjolras had _welded_ to his metal bedframe.

No one has ever accused him of half-assing anything.

Grantaire has his face in the pillows, but he can hear Enjolras moving around the room. The bed dips, and Enjolras slaps Grantaire on the ass sharply.

“Lift your hips,” he says, all business. Grantaire does and his pants are unfastened and pulled down his legs taking his underwear with them. Then, with no warning, his shirt is being cut up the middle of his back and across the top and through both sleeves so it falls off completely. So, now he’s naked and cuffed facedown on Enjolras’ bed. Okay.

“Color,” Enjolras asks.

“So green,” Grantaire says, turning his head to the side.

“Good,” Enjolras says simply, pulling the belt loose from Grantaire’s neck. The next thing Grantaire knows, he hears a sharp _crack_ , and pain explodes across his ass.

“Argghh,” he says eloquently into the pillows.

“Still green?” Enjolras asks, stroking the belt down Grantaire’s crack and against his balls.

“Yes, Sir,” he says, but holy mother of shit, he is on fire from one strike.

“Great. This is for your disobedience in the living room. Count them out.” Strikes begin to fall as quickly as Grantaire can manage to count, and Enjolras isn’t playing around. His ass, his thighs and his back are all game, and Enjolras was right. He is going to be so sore.

When he reaches twenty, Enjolras tells him he can stop counting, but he doesn’t stop with the belt. He gets maybe ten more, Grantaire’s counting skills can’t be completely trusted at the moment, and then the belt hits the floor with a muted thump. Hands are suddenly kneading into the abused flesh of his ass and he can’t help it. He whimpers, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“You’re beautiful when you’re all red from me beating you. I love it,” Enjolras purrs, low and dirty. Grantaire groans and his dick tries to get hard despite all the pain. At this point it’s Pavlov’s voice of erections.

When the hands stop digging into his skin, he sighs, trying to control his breathing. That’s the key to relaxing into this. _Breathe,_ he tells himself. A moment later, a cool hand slides lightly down the red-hot skin of his back before stopping right in the dip above his ass. Slick fingers slip between his cheeks and rub at his rim, pressing lightly and getting a moan from Grantaire’s throat.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Enjolras says, rubbing his fingers in circles before pushing inside. Two fingers enter him at first, stretching and rubbing at his prostate with every thrust. He cries out, his cock swelling where it’s trapped between his stomach and the bed. The fingers keep going, gaining speed, and a third slips in without any warning.

“Nnnngg,” Grantaire says to the pillows, trying to shove his ass into the air with his legs, but Enjolras pushes down on the small of his back with his free hand, trapping him there with no way to move.

“Be good, R. Just lie there and take it. Take whatever I give you, and thank me for it.” If Enjolras doesn’t stop fucking stroking his prostate right now, Grantaire is going to come all over the duvet.

“Oh, God, Sir please, can I come? Oh my God. Fuck,” Grantaire rambles trying to think of the most unsexy things his mind can manage to stop himself from coming all over himself untouched.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” Enjolras stops and pulls his fingers out. Grantaire groans, shifting his hips a bit to get some friction against his cock. A hand comes down harshly on his ass.

“Stop it. You’ll get to come when I say so,” Enjolras reprimands. Something hard and cold is pressed against his entrance and he shivers. The pressure builds until it slips inside him, something wider than the fingers he was prepped with, but not longer. He moans as the top of it brushes against his prostate and his cock leaks into the bed. Enjolras gives the base of the plug a few good tugs, pulling it out almost completely and thrusting it back in. Once it’s seated all the way inside him again, Enjolras grips his hips and flips him over.

“Oh, Grantaire, you are so beautiful like this. Look at you. You look absolutely debauched.” Enjolras lies on top of Grantaire and kisses him hard, his tongue roaming every inch of Grantaire’s mouth. Enjolras’ hips are pressing into Grantaire’s with such a force that Grantaire moans and fights to free his hands. He can feel Enjolras’ jean-clad erection pressed against his, and it’s all he can do to keep from spilling all over Enjolras’ front.

Enjolras seems to realize this and rolls his hips one more time, grinning widely when Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and makes a strangled noise in his throat.

The weight of Enjolras’ body lifts off of Grantaire’s and for a moment he just keeps his eyes closed and breathes. He’s jolted back to the present when Enjolras sits back down astride his chest, his pants undone and his cock pulled out. He rubs the head across Grantaire’s lips, smirking when Grantaire licks the pre-come off his lips.

“Suck,” he orders, and Grantaire obeys enthusiastically even at the bad angle. He sucks hard on the head before diving down as far as he can, pressing his tongue against the underside as he comes back up. Grantaire enjoys blowing Enjolras almost as much as he enjoys being blown by Enjolras. So, he lets his mind stay firmly on the task he’s been given instead of focusing on the way the plug is insistently poking at his prostate with every shift of Enjolras’ hips.

Grantaire is beginning to lose himself in Enjolras, the weight of his cock on Grantaire’s tongue, the smell of him, the pressure on his chest from his body. Suddenly, the plug buzzes to life and Grantaire chokes on Enjolras’ dick. He pulls back and looks up at Enjolras, who is the smuggest bastard Grantaire has ever seen. Enjolras waves a tiny black remote at him and pushes the “+” button a couple times.

The vibrations intensify and Grantaire’s eyes roll back in his head. Fleetingly, he notices that Enjolras has gotten off his chest and is now sitting beside him on the bed, but beyond the insistent pulsations directly on his prostate, he can’t really focus on anything else. The fucking world could be burning into space dust, and Grantaire would gladly come through the end of the world smiling.

“Come now,” Enjolras says simply and runs his finger down the underside of Grantaire’s dick.

Grantaire does. Great goddman he does, and he _keeps_ coming for what feels like an eon. Enjolras waits him out, rubbing his fingers through the mess on his abdomen. The vibrations don’t stop, but they do slow down. Grantaire looks over at him through bleary eyes, and his brain short-circuits again as Enjolras sucks Grantaire’s come off his fingers like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then, while Grantaire’s mouth is still hanging open, Enjolras leans over and kisses him, his own come sliding against his tongue as Enjolras kisses him the way he likes, deep and rough. Enjolras pulls back finally and gives him a look.

“What do you say?”

‘Thank you, Sir,” Grantaire replies, breathless.

The plug, which had slowed down enough for Grantaire to be able to think coherently, begins buzzing harder again, the setting rising higher and higher until his very teeth feel like they’re vibrating.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Enj—fuck!” Grantaire stammers out. “Too,” he gasps, trying to catch his breath, “Much. Too much.”

“I don’t know, Grantaire, I think it’s actually not enough,” Enjolras says calmly and ups the vibrations once more. Grantaire screams and Enjolras begins stroking his cock, tight and fast. Grantaire comes again. He comes so hard it hurts.

“Shh, shhh, I’ve got you, it’s okay. I’m here.” When Grantaire comes back to himself, Enjolras is stroking his hands through Grantaire’s hair and whispering to him.

“Oh my god, what did you do?” Grantaire asks, his voice hoarse and quiet.

“Color?” Enjolras responds, ignoring his nonsense question. Okay, so this is still happening. That’s fine. As long has he doesn’t have to move. Or speak. Or anything. As long as he doesn’t have to do anything.

“Green, fuck you, but green,” Grantaire croaks out. Enjolras laughs but doesn’t say anything. He gets up, takes his shirt off, and drops his pants and boxers. He bends Grantaire’s legs up and slowly removes the plug, which has stopped vibrating, but Grantaire can’t put his finger on exactly when it happened.

“I’m going to fuck you. You’re going to come one more time.” Enjolras slides his cock completely into Grantaire and moans, long and loud. “Jesus, R, you’re perfect. You’re so tight and fucking _perfect_.” Grantaire isn’t close to coming again, but he is enjoying the faces Enjolras is making. His head is thrown back as he thrusts hard and fast, the muscles in his abdomen tightening and rippling with every movement. He’s beautiful, exquisite, a Greek dream in the flesh.

“You take my cock so beautifully,” Enjolras’ voice is staccato and breathy, but he sounds so truthful as he reaches down and begins to stroke Grantaire in time with his thrusts. He’s hard again, only just, and so fucking sensitive that he can’t handle it. Except that he does, his body going rigid and tight. Enjolras swears as Grantaire tightens around him, his rhythm stuttering as he comes. He takes a few moments, breathing hard, before he slips his fingers inside Grantaire’s slippery hole, doing nothing but rubbing Grantaire’s prostate. Grantaire cries out, tugging at his cuffs because he literally can’t do anything but take it. Enjolras has his legs bent up and held fast with one arm, keeping him from moving his lower body at all. Tears are leaking out of Grantaire’s eyes as he _sobs_.

“Enjolras, please,” he gasps out, not even knowing what it is he’s pleading for, all his addled brain knows is that he _needs_ something.

“I’ve got you, R, let go,” Enjolras murmurs to him, his fingers still working mercilessly inside Grantaire. When he comes, he arches off the bed, his legs coming loose from Enjolras’ hold. When his body stops twitching and contracting, he goes limp, too exhausted to even stay conscious.

Enjolras is cuddled up to his side when he opens his eyes. His arms are loose, he’s been wiped off, and a blanket is covering both of them. It’s been a long time since he’s lost _that_ much time after a scene.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching up to run his fingers through one of Enjolras’ curls.

“Hey, yourself,” Enjolras replies, beaming at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like somebody beat me and then made me come three times.”

“So, good?”

“Yes. And sore. Fuck, I’m sore,” he groans.

“I’ve got something to put on your back. It’ll help.” Enjolras leans over to grab something off the bedside table. “Roll over for me.” A request, not an order. Grantaire does it anyway. Something cool and thick is rubbed lightly into his welts, instantly lessening the pain. He sighs.

“Did I do okay?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

“You were perfect, Grantaire. I couldn’t ask for anything more or better.” He continues massaging the ointment into Grantaire’s skin. “I think you’re going to be a little bruised.”

“A little? Enjolras, I know bruises. It’s gonna be more than a little. And don’t act like you weren’t planning on this exact thing happening. I know you too well for that.”

“I wasn’t acting like anything. I was just prepared. I know you well, too. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist fighting back even after I made you submit.” He sounds smug.

“Yeah, I know. By the way, I am so proud of your joint locks and your choke. That rear naked choke was perfect. Did you learn all of that in a week?” Grantaire is getting sleepy, but he keeps talking. “Did you know any of that before this?”

“No, none of the submission holds or grappling. I took karate for a while in college, but when you started talking about the different kinds of karate and soft and hard arts, it was completely over my head. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re amazing.”

“You managed to subdue me with what you learned in a week.”

“Yeah, but I only beat you because you were too turned on to properly focus. Your pants are pretty tight, R. I could see everything.” He finishes and just sits at Grantaire’s feet for a few seconds. “I love my marks on you. I like it when I can mark you as mine.”

“So possessive,” Grantaire mumbles.

“Yes, very,” Enjolras replies, unashamed. “Turn over. We’re taking a nap.” They adjust their positions until Grantaire is snuggled into Enjolras’ side, his face in Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras is tracing patterns into the skin of his arm with his fingertips.

“What is it?” Grantaire asks. “I thought we were napping.”

“Can I watch you spar sometime? I don’t want you to do any more fight club shit to get out of your head, but I find you fighting to be extremely hot.” Grantaire smiles.

“How about I teach you a few things, and we can spar?” God help him if he’s going to be physically battling Enjolras on a regular basis. He has a feeling that fucking your boyfriend on the mat in front of everyone is frowned upon at his gym.

“That sounds great,” Enjolras says, surprised. Grantaire huffs out a laugh. His boyfriend is ridiculous.

“Don’t be surprised. It’s really just a ploy to get to throw you around.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Thanks, Enjolras. For doing all this for me. It…it means a lot. I love you,” Grantaire finishes softly.

“I didn’t do anything more than you deserve. And I love you too. Now, go to sleep.” It takes an actual effort for Grantaire to not argue, but he lets the words settle over him and doesn’t say anything.

“Best idea you’ve had all day.” Enjolras kisses his head, and Grantaire drifts, no voices or stress or buzzing in his head at all. He falls asleep instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's more of what you expected when I hit you with that angst bomb, right? I hope so. Thanks for staying with me for so long and still caring about these two dummies. Make my day in the comments or come say hi and yell with me about fictional dead French revolutionaries at my [tumblr](www.agentxinfinity.tumblr.com). <3<3


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